“What! you repent of your admirable conduct, M. Tabaret?”

“Do I repent of it!  That is to say he deserved to be poisoned by the bread I gave him.”

M. Daburon was unable to repress a gesture of surprise, which did not escape the old fellow’s notice.

“Hear, before you condemn me,” he continued.  “There was I at twenty-five, imposing upon myself the severest privations for the sake of my father,—­no more friends, no more flirtations, nothing.  In the evenings, to augment our scanty revenues, I worked at copying law papers for a notary.  I denied myself even the luxury of tobacco.  Notwithstanding this, the old fellow complained without ceasing; he regretted his lost fortune; he must have pocket-money, with which to buy this, or that; my utmost exertions failed to satisfy him.  Ah, heaven alone knows what I suffered!  I was not born to live alone and grow old, like a dog.  I longed for the pleasures of a home and a family.  My dream was to marry, to adore a good wife, by whom I might be loved a little, and to see innocent healthy little ones gambolling about my knees.  But pshaw! when such thoughts entered my heart and forced a tear or two from my eyes, I rebelled against myself.  I said:  ’My lad, when you earn but three thousand francs a year, and have an old and cherished father to support, it is your duty to stifle such desires, and remain a bachelor.’  And yet I met a young girl.  It is thirty years now since that time; well! just look at me, I am sure I am blushing as red as a tomato.  Her name was Hortense.  Who can tell what has become of her?  She was beautiful and poor.  Well, I was quite an old man when my father died, the wretch, the—­”

“M.  Tabaret!” interrupted the magistrate, “for shame, M. Tabaret!”

“But I have already told you, I have forgiven him, sir.  However, you will soon understand my anger.  On the day of his death, looking in his secretary, I found a memorandum of an income of twenty thousand francs!”

“How so! was he rich?”

“Yes, very rich; for that was not all:  he owned near Orleans a property leased for six thousand francs a year.  He owned, besides, the house I now live in, where we lived together; and I, fool, sot, imbecile, stupid animal that I was, used to pay the rent every three months to the concierge!”

“That was too much!” M. Daburon could not help saying.

“Was it not, sir?  I was robbing myself of my own money!  To crown his hypocrisy, he left a will wherein he declared, in the name of Holy Trinity, that he had no other aim in view, in thus acting, than my own advantage.  He wished, so he wrote, to habituate me to habits of good order and economy, and keep me from the commission of follies.  And I was forty-five years old, and for twenty years I had been reproaching myself if ever I spent a single sou uselessly.  In short, he had speculated on my good heart, he had . . .  Bah! on my word, it is enough to disgust the human race with filial piety!”